” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. McClintock was amused. "Put your arms about me. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. " "You're a philosopher, too.
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